Page 8 of Me Three
Carter huffs and stabs his fork on one of the decimated lasagna pieces. “Does it matter?”
I shrug.
“Calculus 1,” he replies.
“So, they’re a freshman?”
“What does it matter, Ev? They’re my student. We fucked my student,” he whispers. “And now I have to see them for the rest of the semester, if not longer.” Carter looks away from me and into the distance, the lasagna still dangling next to his mouth, but he’s got no apparent intention of eating it. Can’t say I blame him. The cafeteria food is atrocious, but… a man’s gotta eat. So eat I do.
“I need to find out what their major is. Because if I have to teach them for the next fuck knows years, I’ll have to find a solution,” he mumbles.
“Carter, dude,” I tell him. “Why are you panicking? You fucked them before you knew they were your student, and you have no intention of doing it again—”
“Hell to the no,” he shrieks.
“So why the…” I try to find the best way to describe his reaction, but I come up short of anything that won’t make him even more frustrated.
“Because… because… what if they talk? What if they spread the rumor I sleep with students? I don’t need anyone knowing what I do in my own time and with whom. And if my dean finds out about it, he’ll question my ethics.”
“Sweetie,” I say before I remember he doesn’t like pet names at school, “Carter, you did nothing wrong. Are you going to treat them any different because of what happened last week?”
Carter shakes his head.
“And you’re not going to discriminate against them because of it?”
Again, he shakes his head.
“So, sounds to me like you need to talk to them and explain your position, and you’ll be fine. I didn’t take them for an asshole or a psycho, so I’m sure they’ll be okay if you’re upfront with them.”
“I guess,” he replies.
I want to reach across the table and touch his hand, hug him, reassure him that it’s all fine, but PDA is another big no for Mr. Carter Walker.
And since Carter is taking the revelation about Tru so “well,” any intention of asking him for another go with Tru jumps out the window.
“It’s all going to be fine, Carter. Don’t worry. You’ll see. I promise you,” I tell him, and Carter purses his lips, but nods. “There, see? Crisis averted,” I add.
“For now,” he says.
“Or for good,” I correct him. “Why do you always have to assume the worst of people?”
His shoulders rise even higher and his face hardens. Plus he’s gone back to stabbing his fork through every piece he’s already cut, his plate now looking like that of a two-year-old.
“Do you have to ask?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry. I forgot. You know, considering it’s been six years and all. Stupid Everett,” I mock him.
I wish I knew where that motherfucker who broke Carter’s heart was so I could give him a new face, but it had happened during our “apart” years—if you can call them that—when I was studying in Paris for my Ph.D. and Carter was still in Philly, working on his own degree, so I’d never even met the guy that cheated on him with every living creature in the city. But he certainly did a number on Carter.
Sometimes, I wish I never left for Paris. That I stayed home to do my doctorate. Maybe that way, I could have seen the bastard’s deceit and stopped it before it broke Carter. Or maybe he’d never have met him and things would be… different.
As it is now, I can only be there as a friend for him. When and if he lets me.
But one thing’s for sure. Present Carter is not the same as Past Carter. He’s not the man I left behind. He’s not the best friend that shared everything with me and who opened up to me about his dreams and fears.
The only thing he’s willing to share nowadays is his bed. And as perfect as that may be, it’s not enough.
“Whatever, dude,” Carter says and looks at his phone. “You better get going or you’ll be late for class.”
